


The sky

by roselew



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Gen, In which my head canon is that vince doesn't handle things nearly as well as he'd like to think, M/M, Might be a wip, Poetry, Rambling now, bye, could be pre-slash, never done a poetry before wow, not sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roselew/pseuds/roselew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Vince doesn't shine nearly as brightly as the alcohol makes him think he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The sky

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a while ago, fixed it up today.  
> It might be a WIP, I'm not sure yet. I've never done poetry before so I'm not sure what constitutes an ending. 
> 
> Either way, I hope you enjoy it ^^ <33

Years ago,

Longer than he’d care to remember or ever admit,

His mother told him the story of the sky

and the moon

and how their love was so strong that the sky

sacrificed her light, just to give her moon the chance to shine,

if only for a few hours,

in turn, destroying her only chance to be with the one she so adored.

-

He didn’t attempt to understand the moral

of that particular story, until he was thirteen.

It was about love, of course. Soulmates,

the lengths people would go to

just to make others happy, even at the cost of their own joy.

He didn’t pretend to understand: because he couldn’t imagine

loving, or being loved, enough to make that particular brand of loss

worth any of the pain it would inevitably cause.

-

Clubs reminded him of being young: of his first cigarette

and the taste of it on the lips of the first boy he kissed.

Stumbling home in five-inch heels, he was seventeen,

staring up at the darkness and giggling to himself,

about the foolish sky and her selfish moon, and their love that made no sense,

all the while wishing he wasn’t walking alone.

-

Stumbling home in seven inch heels at twenty-four years old,

the smell of alcohol mixing with the taste of ash

and about half-a-dozen kisses,

a toxic cocktail of loneliness and lust.

He’s not alone: can feel arms around his waist and lips at the back of his neck,

but with how he keeps stumbling

giggling, tripping over his own feet,

he might as well have been.

-

Three years later, he’s staring out the window.

Drunk, but not giggling, or wondering at the romance of

the sky

and the moon.

His eight-inch heels

are discarded at his bedside, worn and removed

before they could even get outside.

Hands that aren’t his own, but are familiar enough,

appear to cover his shaking body with a blanket that smells comfortingly of cheap aftershave,

and he wonders, briefly, for how long he kept his friend awake.

-

He’s got to stop drinking, or so they say.

So he says.

And at the end of the day, only one opinion really matters,

and when it’s presented like it was,

with dark, watery eyes,

and hands grasping for his own to make him focus,

he tries his best. His silver boots are locked in the cupboard,

and he thinks he might understand,

how the sky felt,

when she gave up half her sunlight,

only to let her moon thrive.

-

He climbs into a bed that isn’t his own, but

for once, doesn’t belong to a stranger, only three weeks later.

He blames his behaviour on the storm: claims they’d scared him

since he was a kid. His heels haven’t been worn

for as long as he’s been ‘sober’, ‘three whole weeks’,

But when a flash lights up the room,

and he can see the trust highlighted on his friend’s face,

along with the sharp line of a stiletto in the hall,

he wonders if he could have lied so easily

without those three glasses of courage,

washed down with a shot of narcissism.


End file.
